


On Submission

by TheCrazyGeek



Series: On a f*cking wing and a f*cking prayer [11]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hand Jobs, M/M, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 12:43:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2622203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrazyGeek/pseuds/TheCrazyGeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ollie Reeder finds out that Malcolm Tucker has wings. He tries to turn this to his advantage; after all - the Winged are not even supposed to exist anymore…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The reveal

**Author's Note:**

> Another find product from the Tumblr writing team of themasterplanner and the-crazy-geek

Malcolm had him pinned against the wall, one talon-like hand around his throat, his feet dangling about a foot off the ground. His shirt and tie hung in tatters around him, revealing a lean, rangy body subtly corded with wiry muscle. The communications director’s wings (!) stretched to their full span, showing off silvery, sharp-looking feathers.

Because Malcolm Tucker wasn’t fucking frightening enough as a normal human.

His features were sharp and hard, his skin seemed to be tightening around his bones as he gritted his teeth, accentuating every vein until you could almost see the blood pumping through them, his mad grey eyes boring into him. They said that winged humans were the inspiration behind angels, but Malcolm looked like a monster.

He briefly wondered if this is how a mouse feels, just before it is devoured by the eagle.

 

Maybe this was a bad dream and he’d wake up and winged humans were still extinct and the Director of Communications for Her Majesty’s Government wasn’t one of those…things.

His grey eyes rested on Ollie’s own, challenging him to say something, anything. A delicate translucent membrane had fallen over his eyes, creating a milky sheath, like the eyes of a reptile. He blinked, and the film retracted. For a terrifying moment he thought that Malcolm would kiss him.

Still, to his credit, he managed to find his voice.

"I thought that if anything, you’d have fucking bat wings."

Malcolm just laughed, low and throaty, as his eyes swept down. Even if his sharp eyes hadn’t caught sight of the large hard-on straining at Ollie’s trousers, even if his ears couldn’t detect every rapid beat of his thudding heart, his superior sense of smell would have recognized the arousal-response pheromones coming off the young policy adviser in waves.

"Ye’re getting off on this?" Malcolm actually grinned. "The fucking Poxbridge rent boy’s pitching a trouser tent again. Why am I not fucking surprised?"

"I don’t know what you’re talking about, you arrogant old—"

Malcolm’s hand tightened around his neck. “Don’t even try to deny it, son. You’re harder than a fucking priest in a room full of altar boys!” Indeed, Ollie’s cock was fully erect now and twitching, begging for a touch.

The winged monster — the Demon of Downing Street in truth — had slowly lowered him to the floor, but he kept his hand around his neck. His voice was low now, almost husky, and his face was only an inch away from his own. “Don’t deny it. You want me.” He grabbed one of Ollie’s shaking hands and placed it up at the base of his great wings, allowing him to feel the soft downy feathers there, and before he could stop himself, a whimpering, lustful moan escaped Ollie’s throat as his fingers brushed over the sensitive skin. “You want me to bend ye over this desk an’ have my fucking way with ye. Don’t you? _Don’t you!?_ ”

***

It had started out as a simple enough bollocking. Reeder’s seduction of and subsequent affair with a press hack — a basic exchange for information and some softball interviews — had ended with an argument that ended with said press hack threatening to go public with the whole affair, forcing the Director to mop up the mess, as per usual. Malcolm had called him in to formally shake him by the throat, elucidate the extent of his extreme fucking uselessness, and inform him very enigmatically of the consequences of cunting up a simple assignment again.

When Ollie had attempted to deflect responsibility for the whole fuckpile of shite by pointing out that Malcolm himself had ordered him to carry out the affair in the first place, he’d lost it. When he blurted out that he’d admitted during the argument that he was only dating her on Malcolm’s orders, he’d gone absolutely apofuckingplectic, his powerful wings involuntarily unfolding amid an explosion of feathers, shredding yet another dress shirt and suit jacket in the process.

It was just as well. Happy Feet had been forgetting who ruled the fucking roost around here. Maybe he’d even piss all over himself after seeing what sort of creature he was dealing with. That would teach him to open his bonehole to —

And then the little queer had gone and had himself a raging stiffy upon seeing him half naked, wings spread, with death in his eyes. If only he’d found this out fucking months ago. He could have used this.

Oh yes. He knew what he wanted. The mincing Oxbridge cunt might not have a fetish for feathers and wings like Nicola Murray, but in his most secret desires, the little poofter wanted to be taken and thoroughly dominated — as only an Alpha of the Flock could. He’d let him squirm for a few minutes more, telling him how much he’d like to tear his heart out and eat it, along with a frighteningly detailed image of how exactly he would go about it and where precisely in his skinny chest he would dip his claws, and twist, and wrench, before finally letting him run to the safety of the men’s bogs down the hall.

"Sam!" Malcolm opened the door slightly and called into the hallway, wrenching a strip of grey fabric from a wing. " _Sam!_ Can I get a clean suit, love, it’s fucking happened again!”

***

The rain fell from the sky and seemingly straight down the back of Ollie’s neck as he stumbled home, his mind a daze. It’s not every evening you find a long-extinct predator lurking at your very place of work. It’s not as though Malcolm needed any help to be extra frightening, and now Ollie knew the man probably _could_ rip out his spinal cord and chew on it like a piece of toffee — it wasn’t just an idle threat.

Christ, he needed a drink. A drink and someone to talk to. He laughed ruefully at this, wiping the rain off his glasses as he entered the Tube station, because he knew what the reaction of his friends would be if he called them up and told him that he’d essentially seen a fucking dinosaur at work.

_A fucking gorgeous, sleek, deadly one…_

He wondered if Emma had any severely strong booze at home. She lived with that damn ponce Phil; she must have something that took away the pain…

Ollie stumbled into the flat, his legs seemingly giving out once he’d reached the sofa. He’d found something alcoholic in the kitchen — he wasn’t sure what, and didn’t care — and took a few long draughts straight out of the bottle.

No one would ever believe him. Winged humans had been officially extinct since the nineteenth century. Of course, there were always conspiracy theories and crackpot websites that maintained they were still among us, secretly running world affairs from behind the scenes — which he had always dismissed as the raving fantasies of the paranoid. He was, of course, an Oxford man. He did not believe in that nonsense…

But to have one standing before him, right in front of his eyes, spreading a pair of enormous, massive, beautiful wings —

Ollie looked down to find himself growing erect, cock stiff and begging for a touch just at the mere memory of it. He’d almost said yes in that office, almost offered himself up to him! To Malcolm!

He wasn’t queer, for fuck’s sake. Sure, he’d experimented in university and all, but he had a girlfriend, didn’t he? And he certainly wasn’t attracted to Malcolm Tucker! Malcolm was old enough to be his father, and fucking terrifying to boot.

_Terrifying and fucking seductive_ , something in the back of his mind whispered. _A silver-Winged Scottish sex god._ Ollie’s erection twitched, pushing hard against his trousers.

He couldn’t calm down like this…

Malcolm could have ripped him in half, tore at him with the talon-like fingernails, bitten him on the neck with his sharp predatory teeth —

— Ollie moaned despite himself and his hand moved toward his trousers. A natural submissive in bed, much to Emma’s delight, he’d of course entertained fantasies of being dominated by various people and maybe, just maybe, Malcolm had featured on that list once. Briefly. He was pretty old, after all.

But now he was at home, sporting an insistent erection at the thought of that man. Malcolm had power. Real fucking dominance, not a play-act with some spanking and harsh words, but a true alpha presence. He bet Malcolm was _very_ dominant. He’d certainly given that impression when he had Ollie backed up against that wall like a predator picking out the most choice and vulnerable member of the herd, his inhuman senses sniffing out Ollie’s mix of terror and arousal, his lithe and powerful body almost dwarfed by those huge dove-grey wings —

Fuck. He was really fucking hard now. He couldn’t seriously have one off the wrist thinking of Malcolm, could he? His cock twitched as if in answer. _He’d pin you down_ , the darkest corner of Ollie’s mind whispered, _he’d have you on your knees sucking him off while his hand tears at your hair and he’ll say if you breathe a word of this to anyone he’ll rip you in half and feast on your flesh, he’ll drag you into meeting rooms and bathrooms and make you get him off in under five minutes, he’ll have you facedown on his bed while he’s above you with wings spread high —_

Ollie found his hand already down the front of his trousers during that barrage from his libido, his fingers cupping the hard ridge of flesh under his boxer shorts, pressing his cock against his stomach and rubbing it gently. He could feel a war going on inside his head, the war that would decide whether he should be terrified or worshipful. His heartbeat thundered in his ears and he surrendered to the needs of his body.

Ollie stroked himself, hardly able to breathe, frantically tugging and running his spare hand down his chest to pull at his nipples … to thoughts of Malcolm Tucker. He imagined Malcolm — terrifying, magnificent, the ultimate predator — throwing him over the nearest press office desk and pinning him down, those gigantic grey wings spreading above and beating hard enough to blow paperwork away. Malcolm would claw and bite and snarl as he took him hard and rough, used him to get himself off, then toss him away like a broken rag doll and command him to pull his trousers up and get out of his fucking sight —

He screamed Malcolm’s name as he finally found his release, his body shuddering in a violent, shattering orgasm.

As he cleaned himself off with tissues, he was overcome by fear, desire, lust, humiliation all at once.

He couldn’t tell anyone about this. He’d be ruined if he tried. And what was worse, Malcolm fucking knew it.

His phone buzzed as he was stripping off for a cleansing hot shower:

_Oi, poxbridge. Having a good wank over things are we? - Malc_

Ollie had always thought Malcolm wasn’t human. Now he knew it.

Ollie briefly entertained the thought of just responding with _yes, actually, he was, and what are you going to do about it?_ Fly in through his window to give him another bollocking?

_He would, just to tell him what a sick little queer he was_ , the voice in the back of his head whispered, _as he grabbed him with inhumanly strong hands and bent him backwards over his own bed, stroking and teasing his erection until it hurt, denying him release until he begged —_

He knew he couldn’t go to work like this. He needed to get Little Ollie under control — it was already stirring, growing stiff again at the filthy fantasies that just wouldn’t leave his head. If Malcolm caught him sporting a hard-on in his presence, he’d never hear the end of it.

For a few minutes, he considered the possibility of just calling in sick.

_No, I’m not. I’m busy shitting myself. You were terrifying enough before - Ollie_

That might get the Winged Cujo off his back for a while. To anyone else, that text would have been an insult, but he had a suspicion that Malcolm would see it as a compliment. His phone buzzed a few minutes later, confirming his suspicions:

_You trying to chat me up? Fuck me, I knew you public school boys were queer. - Malc_

Ollie wasn’t a total idiot, he’d managed to get that First from Oxford after all, and he wondered if anyone else knew about Malcolm having great fuck-off wings. Someone _had_ to. Sam at the very least — her being Malcolm’s PA and all. He made a mental note to gently quiz Sam about a few things later on in the week. Right now though, god he needed a shower…

***

Malcolm glared at his phone briefly and saw no response from the chinless twat. Fucking coward probably _was_ away shitting his kecks, Malcolm didn’t mind _that_ reaction to his wings, but he’d need some fucking ammo to hand if Reeder ever found his bollocks and decided to out Malcolm and his kind. He flicked through his mental library of blackmail files and came up with relatively little on the Poxbridge cunt: an ex-girlfriend who went on to date a convicted fraudster, a rumour or two about taking it up the tradesmen’s entrance from some senior boys at his old school, nothing Malcolm could really use.

_He got horny when I threatened him._ Lacked the subtlety that Malcolm would have preferred, but there was always that fallback. Jesus Christ, did _everyone_ in Westminster get fucking moist when Malcolm F Tucker showed up?!

***

_Press Office. ASAFP. I have a job for you. - Malc x_

Ollie sighed and stepped into the bathroom. He just couldn’t catch a break. He was already getting hard again thinking of all the things Malcolm would do to him, and he was going to have to have another quick wank in the shower before he left. Even in the steaming hot water, he shivered; not from the cold, not even from fear, but from desire — an insatiable, persistent lust that obliterated any ability to think straight.

He was going mad. That was it. The stress of the job had finally gotten to him and he was cracking up. Any time now, he’d be sectioned under the Mental Health Act. Why else would he be getting hard every time he thought about the grey demon of Whitehall?

Or maybe Malcolm just had this effect on everyone who had the misfortune to work directly under him. He’d seen how Nicola Murray looked at him, she practically drooled over him. Whenever he darkened the doorsteps of DoSAC, she looked like she was going to swoon into his arms like a 1940s movie heroine. If only she knew what Malcolm really was. He’d like to see the look on her face when he told her.

He stepped out and wiped the steam from the mirror with a shaking hand, closing his eyes against the images supplied by his overactive imagination and libido. Stupid, really. He’d not had this much trouble getting his dick under control since he was a teenager first discovering the joys of self-pleasure and a lingerie catalogue.

Thoughts aside, he really _had_ better make haste to Malcolm’s office. The man wasn’t noted for his patience any more than he was for his gentle speech.

***

Ollie, dressed in his second-best suit (the best one was for funerals only and he thought Malcolm would at least warn him if he actually intended to kill him), entered the hallowed halls of Number 10 with not quite a spring in his step, but definitely with more optimism than he’d had earlier.

For a start, Malcolm wanted him. Had a _job_ for Ollie no less. It could be a stepping stone to greater things, and one coated with poison and furious Malcolm-bile was better than none at all. This possibility calmed him enough that he actually stopped to flirt with the ever-present Sam before going in to see Malcolm. The thought of how far he could go if he had Malcolm’s PA as his girlfriend was enough to overcome trivial objections like how he didn’t actually fancy her at all.

She was just smiling and rewarding him with a small laugh when he felt a hot, dry hand reach around and grab him by the scruff of his neck.

“You lay one fucking _molecule_ of your slimy fucking body on mai PA and I’ll personally see to it that you are the main course at a buffet for fucking cannibals-on-a-diet-of-skinny-perverts!”

Malcolm practically dragged him into his office with that inhuman strength of his, shutting the door behind him. The day wasn’t off to a good start.

***

This fucking morsel-on-legs standing in front of him just annoyed Malcolm even further. As an apex predator, he hated pretend ones; he’d seen Reeder in the past hitting on women like they were objects and trying to set himself up as some kind of power. The man thought he was a tiger, when in fact a fucking weasel was closer to the truth.

“Sam is off limits, ye ken?” His voice went ice cold as he stared Ollie down. “You hit on her again, an’ I’ll get Jamie tae hit you across the Thames. We clear?”

“Um, sorry Malcolm, I, err, wasn’t doing anything bad, just being friendly is all—”

“Fuck off. I can smell human fear _and_ lust, ye sick fuck, and I _know_ what ye were trying.” Malcolm pointed at a chair that was decidedly lower than the position he’d taken up leaning against his desk. “Sit. Now.”

***

Memories of being called into the Headmaster’s office (‘ _you are aware Reeder minor, that smuggling gin into the dorms is the very epitome of crass behavior?’)_ flooded Ollie’s mind as he sat down in a chair far too low for his tall frame and looked up at the hawkish face of Malcolm.

Ollie crossed his legs, trying not to imagine Malcolm spreading his wings wide above him like a great silver shadow just before he tore into him, trying not to cower in the chair — or worse, have a repeat of his previous “performance.” The last thing he needed was to get another hard-on in front of Malcolm.

_Just concentrate on the job, Oliver…_

With one impossibly swift movement, Malcolm reached over and grabbed a handful of Ollie’s hair, yanking his head back and exposing his throat. He was leaning over him — “personal space” being a foreign concept to Malcolm Tucker — _looming_ over him like some monstrous bird of prey, still glaring at him with the fixed stare and bared teeth of a predator on the hunt.

He flinched, but he finally managed to meet Malcolm’s eyes. Even the storm-grey colour of his irises struck him as hazardous and hypnotic.

"I want you to fucking pay very, very close attention tae every single word I say."

***

He paid very, very close attention indeed. God, what else could he do? The man was fucking feral, even worse than Jamie. He listened in fear and then in complete disbelief as Malcolm basically ordered him to babysit Ben Swain, oh and “keep an eye on Nicholson.” This wasn’t career-boosting behavior.

"You think ye can manage not to fuck that up with ye very limited brainpower?"

Even a small animal will bite if backed into a corner long enough.

“I, um, _don’t_ think. Look, we’ve got graduates to do that sort of menial work and I—”

“— you’re fucking refusing me?!” Malcolm’s storm-grey eyes were now framed by the veins standing out in sharp relief under his pale skin. “The Boy Wonder thinks he has enough of his tiny wee bollocks tae go up against me, is that it?”

And that was when Ollie made the near-fatal mistake he’d spend the next month trying to fix:

“Unless you want me to go tell a few papers how the fucking Winged _are_ back and, oh by the way, are flapping around Number 10 and called Malcolm F Tuc—”

His words were cut off by a strong thin hand closing around his neck and lifting him straight into the air.

As Malcolm shoved him up against the wall, the air around him seemed to charge and buckle with electricity and then fold, as if heat emanated from his clothes. An almost involuntary flex of his shoulders, and his human appearance dissolved in a fluctuation of warped space, exposing the creature he truly was. In an explosion of air and feathers and pieces of Savile Row, his wings unfolded, their eighteen foot span blowing paperwork around him in a whirlpool.

Now free of their confinement, they hovered over his wide shoulders and moved with the rhythm of his breaths, softly rustling the feathers. The feathers were uniformly dove grey, with an almost silvery sheen to them. Holy fucking hell they were huge, the tips of the longest pinions reaching to either end of the spacious press office, sleek and pointed like a falcon’s wings — powerful-looking and very masculine.

Ollie could do nothing but stare, fascination warring with fear, the beauty of those monstrous, magnificent wings drawing his attention and drowning out the gut instinct that should have told him to do anything he could to stay away from the predator.

Ollie would never admit to it publicly, but he had always been a bit of a slut for power, and Malcolm was so strong, so intense and dominant. He could already feel his cock taking an interest in the current proceedings and standing to attention. Today just wasn’t going his way at all…

***

Malcolm quite liked it when people were afraid of him. People _should_ be afraid of him. It meant that even though they were normally about as useful as a fucking chocolate teapot, they would do as they were fucking told. Which was good for him, and therefore good for the Party.

He had to admit, secrecy rules and ruined suits aside, spreading his wings was the quickest and most effective way to inspire pants-pissing terror in some worthless fuckspad.

Besides, it felt fucking good to let them out; retracting them always felt like stuffing himself into a very small box, and it gave him a fucking backache if they were in for too long. Conversely, extending the fuckers made him feel like a butterfly finally tearing through its chrysalis. The Winged were meant to fly, and he’d had to deal with crisis after crisis lately, leaving him with precious little time to use his wings. The urges to dispense with the pretense of wingless humanity became stronger the more time he went without a hunt. He recognized the emotions as coming from the purely animalistic, raptor part of him: hunger, lust, aggression — and a sense of power. He could hear the birds outside the window, calling to each other, and he was enraged that they were out of reach, that he could not spread his wings and fly up to them right the fuck now and seize them in his talons, crunch their bones in his teeth, feel their blood drip down his chin.

He’d find time to hunt for a wee snack later. But for now, the Beige fucking Power Ranger would have to do, bloody bony morsel that he was.

***

Ollie had obeyed at first; finding excuses to be elsewhere during Nicola’s endless “Ideas meetings” was hardly difficult, as Glenn could be browbeaten into taking the flack any bloody day. The man was a fucking human punchbag. He didn’t tell him that the ‘ _very important’_ tasks he was off doing were menial little chores that Malcolm couldn’t be arsed to do himself.

A couple of days occupied with reporting back to Malcolm about every little thing going on at the offices and trying to keep a certain MP from making a total tosser of himself was about all Ollie was going to deal with. He sat at home that night amid a pile of empty takeaway boxes and ground his teeth.

_It’s not fair. I’m a fucking Oxford grad, and I’m being ordered about by a freak from the Glasgow slums._ Bravery was much easier when he wasn’t in front of the Demon of Downing. _He’s a fucking Winged, something that should be extinct, something that used to tear humans apart for fun._

And something the press would have a bloody field day with.

Ollie’s breath stopped at that realisation. God yes, yes they would. He thought of the full might of the UK press descending upon Malcolm F Tucker and his immense wings —

He allowed himself a wicked grin at that. The media circus wouldn’t just set up their tents around Number 10, the clowns would swallow him whole. Maybe they’d even take Malcolm away and put him in a little birdcage in some secret government lab for further study. Maybe there they’d dissect him to see what makes a Winged human tick and then they’d stuff his body and put it on display in a glass case at the Natural History Museum —

— all unless Malcolm gave him some _real_ power.

_First things first_ , Ollie thought. He’d need some concrete proof or else nobody, including Malcolm, would take him seriously. If only he could get some of his feathers — the great silver flight feathers, the ones far too big to come from any bird. If only he could find someone willing to talk. He was quite sure he could charm Sam Cassidy into spilling her boss’ secrets if he could get her alone. He was quite the ladykiller, after all, if he did say so himself.

A memory of an inhumanly strong hand wrapping round his throat reminded Ollie that if he was to try his charms on the fair Sam, he had better do it when Malcolm wasn’t around. Seemed that the Dark Lord of Westminster was a _tiny_ bit possessive of his staff and Ollie knew that having his gizzards ripped out in front of her desk wouldn’t improve his chances with Malcolm’s PA.

Question was, what would? Ollie tried to think.

***

A very pissed-off communications director had just stormed out of the building, leaving a tirade of gruesome threats hanging in the air behind him. Somebody had fucked up enough to warrant the personal attention of Malcolm Tucker. Sam didn’t know who the poor bastard was, only that Malcolm was heading in the direction of the “one-stop bollock shop” — the giant building that housed several departments, including DoSAC, and that it was serious enough that he’d grabbed Jamie on the way past.

She took a quick look at Malcolm’s email to see if there were any clues to how many body bags she’d have to order later and was just checking his desk for notes when a voice from behind startled her.

"God, he fires off more guns than the Ark Royal when he’s annoyed. I don’t know how you cope with it." Ollie was standing in the office doorway, leaning slightly on the frame and faintly smiling. _Probably just relieved Malcolm wasn’t after him for once._

"Mostly by knowing when to duck," she said, as she straightened up the papers on Malcolm’s desk while making a mental note to get some more satsumas in. Judging by the pile of peels on the desk that she’d just shifted into the bin, it had been at least a three-satsuma rant — pretty bad as far as rants went. Malcolm tended on a scale between one (minor gaffe from a back-bencher) to the entire bowl (Prime Minister resigns) and three spoke of something like expenses fiddling or drug taking.

That was probably why he took Jamie along. The younger Scot had a real talent for sniffing out weaknesses in others and could tear through a department looking for sin in under an hour.

Ollie stayed in the doorway, watching her as she carried on sorting out Malcolm’s affairs. This was odd.

She kept him waiting for a few minutes before looking up from the desk. “Can I help you, Mr Reeder?”

"I wanted to say, you look very lovely today."

"Thank you." Sam returned to the files she’d been sorting.

"I was just wondering, if you were free after work, we could go for coffee? I know a place where we could, uh, talk…and have coffee…"

Sam’s eyes widened in spite of herself. She’d always flown under the radar, as far as workplace liaisons went; although nobody outside the Flock knew they were Joined, everyone understood on some level that she was Malcolm’s — off limits if you didn’t want him yanking your intestines out and using your spleen as a yo-yo.

There had to be a reason why Ollie would take the risk; he was known for seducing journalists and politicos for his own ends, and had just broken things off with a reporter at the _Telegraph_ to resume his relationship with a policy adviser working for Peter Mannion’s shadow cabinet. Still, Malcolm would want to know whatever Ollie was plotting, and it couldn’t hurt to go for coffee and pry his true intents out of him. Nobody played sexual politics quite like the Winged aristocrats she’d been born to. Compared to them, Ollie was a rank amateur.

She didn’t for one second contemplate any non-political reason that Ollie would ask her out. There weren’t any.

“You do realise if Malcolm had heard you say that, he’d be tapdancing on your trachea right now?” she quipped, and despite herself, she smiled when that got a laugh from the awkward gangly man in front of her. “Okay, Thursday after work, then. Malcolm is off at some event at Chequers for a day or two and a few hundred miles _should_ keep you alive and in one piece.”

“I rather like all my pieces where they are, thanks, and, you know, you in one piece is good too.” Something about her look was making him babble; the woman had that _piercing_ stare of Malcolm down pat, and he just hoped that was the only way she was even remotely like him. He’d personally prefer to not get eaten alive in some London alleyway by a female Tucker-clone.

Later, after Ollie had returned to his office — via a non-direct route that minimized the chances of crossing paths with Malcolm’s rampage — he’d sat for a bit and considered his plan for Thursday. How could he bring up the subject of the Winged without her catching on? Perhaps he could watch a documentary on them the night before the date, or visit the exhibits dedicated to Winged history and art at the British Museum.

***

When Ollie arrived at the coffee shop, Sam was already there. Ollie liked that — a girl who knew how important it was not to keep him waiting. She looked beautiful in a form-fitting black sweater and pencil skirt, her long chestnut hair swept up in a chignon, and her graceful walk in those heels showed an upper-class upbringing. He wondered how a nice girl like that ever got involved with a monster like Malcolm, and how she’d managed to stay loyal for years. Maybe she even had a crush on him. Ollie was willing to bet that the pampered, sheltered private-school girl in front of him didn’t have a clue about what her boss did out of the office, with both women and men, if the office grapevine was to be believed.

He dismissed entirely the claims that Malcolm had had an affair with Nicola Murray. He was willing to bet that prude wouldn’t even spread her legs for her own husband. Torrid, swearing-and-violence-filled sexual rampages with Jamie was something he _could_ believe — _and you, caught in the middle between those two men, both dominant, powerful and taking turns using you for their own pleasure —_ fuck, his mind was becoming a bloody sewer where that man was concerned. He briefly turned to adjust the front of his trousers before Sam noticed.

He kept the conversation, at first, deliberately light — asking her about her own life, her upbringing, her interests. Ollie had always believed the way to a woman’s heart was to let her talk, at first, about herself — he’d get told he was “sensitive” and a “good listener,” and from there they trusted him more. They could always sing his praises later.

After telling him a little about herself — born into minor nobility, educated at Cheltenham Ladies’ College, one younger sister, a brother-in-law who managed a banking firm in the City, two nephews, and a gaggle of cousins — Sam had asked an innocuous question about what he did after work, and he saw an opening.

"The usual taking in of culture, I suppose. Went to the British Museum’s new Winged exhibit last night," Ollie said. "Fascinating stuff, really." Sam raised an eyebrow at that.

"You know, they said that 80% of the upper class in Britain has Winged ancestry," he continued, stirring his coffee. "Maybe we’ve even got a bit of Winged DNA ourselves, who knows?"

"Maybe," Sam said, offering a small smile and a few packets of sugar.

"Pity it doesn’t come with the actual wings anymore. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to fly, to be one of them?"

Sam nodded, but didn’t say anything. Ollie reached for more sugar. Maybe if he made a joke about it, she’d not be too uncomfortable talking.

"We’re lucky Malcolm Tucker’s not upper-class, right?" Ollie said, grinning. "God, could you imagine _him_ with wings? He’d just carry a bullhorn and bollock everyone from midair.”

“Or we’d be finding bits of disemboweled journalist all over the roof of Number 10.”

Woman _had_ a fair point there, how come people like Piers Morgan were still alive? More to the point, how on earth to get her talking about Malcolm? “He’s a predator though, isn’t he?” he only partially joked, “not _too_ much of a stretch to imagine him with enormous grey wings and bloody great talons—”

Oho, _that_ was a reaction. Her head snapped up from her coffee and she stared at him with huge deer-in-the-headlights eyes. _She knew._

Sam quickly regained her composure, though her smile was stiff and cold. “I think you have quite the active imagination, Oliver.”

"That’s all it was, wasn’t it? An exercise in imagination." Ollie briefly wondered whether to change the subject or continue prodding. She was afraid of Malcolm, that must be it. She must have seen what he was one day and he’d terrified her into keeping quiet about it. All _he’d_ need to do was be sympathetic, a shoulder to cry on, and convince her that helping him expose her boss was the best thing to do for everyone. “There’s this conspiracy theorist the papers drag out on a slow day, who thinks there are Winged people still around, they’re just in hiding. Of course, nobody believes him, because there’s no proof—”

“Ollie. Of course nobody believes that anymore.” Sam was looking at him as if he were crazy — which, you know, he actually could be. Ollie was starting to doubt his own eyes. But he saw what he saw, damn it. _Twice_.

And there was no mistaking that look in Sam’s eyes when he’d mentioned Malcolm’s wings. Ollie gnawed slightly on the corner of a lip and decided to take a different tack with the evening — maybe she’d be a bit more open where there were not other people sitting around. You never knew who could be listening in.

A short while later, during a casual walk along the banks of the Thames, Ollie stopped and fished out a packet of cigs, offering them out to Sam who just waved him away. “You don’t mind if I smoke out here, do you?” he asked. “I find I need a couple if I’ve had to go near Malcolm’s lair for any reason.”

She laughed and motioned him to go ahead. “Ollie, Jamie smokes like a chimney, and he _doesn’t_ ask anybody if they mind first. It doesn’t offend me, and you’re not likely to wash it down with three cans of Stella and then start a fight.”

Ollie lit the cigarette with shaking hands. There weren’t any others around on this quiet evening, so now was as good a time as any.

"Malcolm is a Winged, isn’t he?"

"Ollie —"

"You’re his PA, you’re practically his bloody shadow, you _know_ he is.” Her eyes shifted toward the ground momentarily but she didn’t reply. “He’s a killer, a bloody great fucking grey-winged _beast!_ " He was building up to a truly impressive verbal rampage, gesticulating wildly with a lit cigarette in his hand and practically chomping at the bit, up until a soft, deceptively strong hand landed on his wrist and made him pause.

"Ollie, I’m going home." Delivered in a flat tone, Sam’s statement effectively ended his rant. His shoulders slumped and he flicked the cig end into the dark Thames water. Damn.

He still had one avenue left —

"Yeah, okay. Been a bit of an arse tonight haven’t I?" He tried for a lopsided grin and was rewarded by a snort of amusement from Sam. "Come on, I’ll walk with you. Get you home safely."

"You, as a bodyguard?" She laughed, but then she patted his arm and motioned him forward.

"Well…you can throw me to any attackers like a stick and run like fuck while they squabble over my bones."

***

It wasn’t a long walk, but Ollie made an effort to try to get Sam to forget that he’d ever brought up the subject at all — cracking bad jokes, telling her funny stories from the office — and it seemed to work. Sam was more relaxed by the time he got her home.

He briefly considered asking if he could come in — this was his usual tactic — but instead just took her hand for a second and placed a gentle kiss on it, laughing when she dropped into a perfect curtsey and made a fluttering motion with her other hand. He could be a gentleman when the occasion called for it.

"Goodnight, fair lady," he said, waving and starting his journey home, his eyes darting around. Would be just like Malcolm to spring out from behind a tree right about now…

Ollie, for all his increasing paranoia, had neglected to look _up_.

Not that he would have been able to see black wings against a night sky, anyway.


	2. The cover-up

*****

The next day, Malcolm arrived back in the office with a few choice remarks to be made about fucking Foreign Affairs ministers who thought their job title was an order. It appeared that a young member of staff at Chequers had had the minister clinging onto her like a fucking fungus one evening because he found her accent “irresistible.” He then spent most of the morning making phone calls, swearing, issuing threats, screaming for more coffee, swearing some more, and then finally calling the minister and telling him that Malcolm F Tucker had just saved his marriage.

Sam had therefore been running around all over the place, fetching things and people for Malcolm to chew on — probably literally — and hadn’t been at her desk when Jamie stormed in to speak to his boss. She would have stopped him, warned him, done anything to prevent Malcolm’s blood pressure climbing even higher.

She arrived back about ten minutes after Jamie went in and just in time to hear a torrent of profane screaming issue from Malcolm’s office that damn near blew out every window of Number 10.

_"He did fuckin’ WHAT?!"_

 

***

"Kissed her hand like some fucking ponce, yeah? Nearly fell off the fucking branch I was sat on fer laughing, mind." Jamie grinned like a fucking maniac as he related everything he’d seen — and heard — to Malcolm about Ollie’s little "date" with Sam. Dropping people onto Malcolm’s kill list was endless fun for Jamie, mostly because the boss let him share the killing duties.

Not much meat on Ollie, but it could still be fun tae tear it off him.

The notion of the skinny poofter daring to ask Malcolm’s personal assistant and Joined Mate out could have been almost amusing — if not for the fact that he’d been asking questions. The remnant of the Winged would reveal themselves to the world when _they_ were ready to, and not a moment before. Jamie, for his part, thought the whole charade was fucking ridiculous and that the Wingless would just fawn all over them, put them on the chat shows, and write treacly books; but until the high-born Flocks said otherwise, disclosure meant certain death for the eejit who allowed it to happen. Jamie could fight like a fucking cage-fighter on PCP, but he had no illusions about his chances of survival if the entire Winged population decided he should be killed.

He carried on with his profanity-laced description of Reeder’s piss-poor attempt to pump Sam for info to Malcolm, ignoring the swearing responses and the visible veins on his boss’ temples. He just wanted to get the auld fuck wound up enough that he’d sign the little spunk-bubble’s death warrant and then Jamie could do a spot of hunting.

Malcolm’s forehead was doing an excellent impression of Chernobyl Reactor 4 circa 1986 when Jamie finished his report.

Reeder had to be dealt with. Now.

“Find him. Bring him here.” Malcolm’s words were clipped and issued from between clenched teeth as Jamie turned away to begin his hunt. “ _Alive_. One piece optional.”

As Jamie headed out the door, he could hear Malcolm shouting for Sam.

***

Weekly status meetings in DoSAC were about as entertaining as watching wood warp, and it wasn’t uncommon for Ollie to sneak in a bit of web-surfing on his Blackberry while Nicola wittered on about “families” or “culture” or “teamwork” or any other banal ineffectual jargon she’d managed to think of. He looked up at the clock for the tenth time and went back to pretending that reading _Playboy_ looked _exactly_ like scrolling through important emails.

Right up until the meeting room door crashed against the wall and a terrifyingly familiar voice yelled: “Oi! Boris Johnson’s lovechild! Come the fuck with me, boss wants a word with ye.”

Nicola tried to assert some miniscule amount of authority at this point, getting a few words into asking Jamie to be a bit more professional in entering meetings in future, before the mad-eyed Motherwell sonofabitch pointed at her. “Shut it! He’s comin’ with me and if ye try to stick your wobbly arse intae our business I’ll get a fucking carving knife, slice it off, roast it, and serve it up at the Press Office as luncheon meat. Right?”

“ _Move_ , ya great fuckwit!” Jamie grabbed Ollie’s tie and started to physically drag him out of the room. He didn’t stop dragging and pushing until he reached Malcolm’s office, caring nothing at all for the looks they got as Jamie physically shoved Ollie along the London streets. He didn’t even stop once they’d got to Number 10 — he kept a very strong, almost talon-like grip on Ollie’s wrist as he dragged him to Malcolm’s lair.

Ollie’s eyes flicked, pleadingly, to Sam in the outer office; she ignored his plight, picking up the phone and calmly telling someone that Malcolm would be unavailable for the next two hours.

Malcolm rose from his chair as Jamie gave him one more hard push into the doorway. “Shut and lock the door behind ye, yeah? I’ll deal with him.”

Jamie looked a bit disappointed, but he obliged. Ollie was alone, in the “Lair of the White Worm.”

Malcolm slowly stood, undid his jacket and shirt and placed both to one side. His sinewy muscles tensed under bare skin as he stretched his arms out and let his great grey wings burst from his back.

Ollie’s confusion at seeing the Director start taking his clothes off in front of him quickly turned to terror as Malcolm leapt toward him with a movement too fast to be seen, using his wings to propel him forward. He watched in choking horror as Malcolm effortlessly swatted a chair out of his path and closed the remaining distance between them in two long swift strides, shoving Ollie right up against the wall with one thin forearm pressed against his throat.

“I gave you an order,” the Demon of Downing Street hissed. “I think I made myself very _very_ fucking clear about what would happen if ye went near Sam, didn’t I?”

“It was only coffee —” Ollie tried to speak, but stopped when Malcolm’s wings rose and spread open with a _snap_ of displaced air.

"Don’t _ever_ try to lie to me, son, you’re not fucking smart enough to get away with it.” Malcolm beat his wings for emphasis, sending papers flying. “Jamie and Sam told me everything.”

Ollie tried to think of something to say, but it was if he had stepped into a field of electricity, one that made all rational thought impossible. All the questions that Malcolm’s last statement had brought to mind — what the hell did Jamie have to do with this, what exactly had Sam told her ferocious boss about him — evaporated in his throat. The communications director had such a dark, overpowering allure — if he didn’t know better, he’d call it a gift from the devil.

Malcolm leaned in closer, so close he could feel his breath tickling the fine hairs on his neck, and Ollie lost control of his own body. He could feel the dull throbbing ache between his legs, the surge of blood draining from his mind to … _other_ places, the insistent urge to grasp Malcolm by the waist and pull him even closer — _hold him so tight against Ollie’s own skinny body that he’d be practically grinding himself off on Malcolm’s narrow hips in his desperate need for him, and the great predator would be looking disdainfully at him all the while before ordering him down onto his knees and —_

“You’re gettin’ fucking hard again.” Malcolm pressed his wrist even harder against Ollie’s neck and bared his teeth. “Got a wee kink fer me, eh? You fucking disgust me. Always a slut for power, aren’t ye?” As if to prove his point, his other hand dropped down, cupping against the bulge straining at Ollie’s trousers with a teasing, feather-light touch. “And when you’re fucking yer palm tae me every night, what do ye imagine me doing, you fucking great poofter?”

Ollie stammered and tried desperately to think about anything other than Malcolm’s hand pressing against his groin, slowly rubbing the fabric of his trousers against his twitching erection. “I, I was just being friendly to her, I’m sorry —”

“— and that’s not what I asked you, was it? We’ll deal with your fucking inability tae listen to simple fucking instructions later.” Malcolm’s thumb drew a line right up the ridge of hard flesh tenting Ollie’s trousers and the young man gave a whimpering moan of guilty pleasure. “So, tell me what ye think of when you’re havin’ your fucking lonely sad wank sessions, and maybe I’ll let ye out of here alive.”

***

Malcolm moved even closer and leaned in, his thin lips barely inches away from Ollie’s, the heady scent of arousal practically pouring off the gangly adviser. He smelled so fucking _good_ , it was taking all of his control to stop him tearing Reeder’s trousers off and bending him over right there and then. The pheromones were going to his head, getting his body primed and ready to fuck or fight, Winged instincts urging him on. He was Alpha, leader, and this little twat needed reminding of just who held the reins of power here.

_Another good little head bowing to the absolute authority of Malcolm F Tucker, Winged Alpha of Westminster._

Ollie swallowed and tipped his head back, looking up at the ceiling to avoid Malcolm’s gaze and unknowingly displaying a classic submissive pose to the predator holding him. Smooth pale skin filled Malcolm’s vision and he had to fight to not bite that enticing neck.

***

Eyes still fixed on the ceiling, Ollie said in a harsh whisper: “You. I, I think of you and I’m sorry Malcolm and —”

A claw-like grip on his heavy erection stopped the rest of the sentence from coming out and he dared a quick look at Malcolm. Great grey wings were still spread wide, brushing against the ceiling, the walls, but the look on the Dark Lord’s face was more amused than offended.

Ollie wasn’t quite sure what made him keep talking at this point — fear, lust, the aura of sheer power coming off the older man — but he found himself admitting to more than he’d _ever_ told anyone else before.

“I, I’m in your office and you’re standing up with those wings out and I’m kneeling in front of you while you hold my head by the hair and tell me what to do —” He stopped briefly to breathe a sigh of pleasure as Malcolm’s hand started to slide up and down the front of Ollie’s trousers. The meaning of the gesture was unmistakable: answer Malcolm’s questions and be rewarded.

“Ye like being on your knees, eh? Jesus, you’re more fuckin’ bent than an eight-bob note.” Malcolm’s eyes still bore into his skull but the hand on Ollie’s groin pressed harder at this, and Tucker actually _smiled_ at the quietly whimpered _"oh God"_ that came from Ollie’s mouth. “So, twat-face. What would you imagine me doing right now then?” Ollie was just about to answer when Malcolm pressed himself hard against his body, and he couldn’t stop the short gasp that escaped at the sudden revelation that he wasn’t the only one sporting a fucking hard-on right then.

Oh god, Malcolm was fucking turned on by this. He could feel the Director’s erection bucking, pushing hard against his trousers, and Ollie wondered how it would feel in his mouth, how Malcolm would swear and moan as he thrust into it…

"You’d make me suck you off and, and then you’d bend me over the desk and fuck me hard —" Ollie gulped against a suddenly dry throat and waited for the inevitable further humiliation, getting even more aroused at the thought.

Malcolm purred in response, his voice rumbling against Ollie’s neck, and grabbed Ollie’s wrists. “Not that ye fucking deserve it, mind, but I’m going tae give ye a choice here. Ye can leave right now—” his iron grip on Ollie’s wrists relaxed briefly as a sort of demonstration — “and fuck off back to fuckwitville, or, you stay and prove to me that what you’re sayin’ is true.” Malcolm’s hands tightened again. “Impress me, please me, and I might find a reason tae leave your scrotum intact.”

Something tight in Ollie’s chest loosened. He was still alive. Malcolm hadn’t torn him to shreds. In a surprisingly clear voice, he said, “I want to impress you. I — I want to stay.”

Malcolm gave him a smile full of sharp teeth. “Flat against the wall, ye little slut.” He moved Ollie’s hands down to his sides and pressed them there. “No moving, no fucking touching, and not a fucking word out of ye unless I tell you.” The communications director’s wings ruffled slightly as he took his hands away from Ollie’s wrists. Ollie stood, breathless with a mix of arousal and desperate fear, and with the biggest, hardest erection he could ever remember having.

"Good. Now remember. No. Fucking. Noise. Else I stop and throw your bony fucking arse out the door for Jamie." With that order delivered, Malcolm started to move.

The powerful, lean muscles along Malcolm’s back and rear flexed and bunched as he ground himself against Ollie’s thigh hard enough to burn, his blade-like wings fluttering in time. It was impossible not to notice Malcolm’s hardness as it pressed and moved against Ollie’s body and it was a real struggle to not just grab the older man and start rubbing himself off as well.

It was a struggle that got a hundred times more difficult when Malcolm started making faint little grunts of pleasure. His hollowed cheeks were flushed, his eyes glazed and heavy-lidded, his bare skin feverishly hot and his hands gripping Ollie’s waist hard enough to bruise. Malcolm leaned forward so his head was resting against Ollie’s shoulder and thrust even harder against the young man’s leg.

“Knew I’d finally find something ye are good at.” Malcolm’s voice dropped, becoming low and husky, dripping with sex. The sight and sound of Malcolm essentially bringing himself off was almost more than Ollie could bear. Even his memories of watching Emma pleasuring herself were nothing compared to having a Winged, oversexed, and stunningly powerful Malcolm Tucker grinding on him —

Ollie’s thoughts were interrupted by the sensation of Malcolm’s sharp teeth on his neck; he was biting him, almost hard enough to break the skin. Almost involuntarily, Ollie tilted his head back, allowing Malcolm better access, and tried to hold back a moan.

Malcolm wasn’t about to let him enjoy _anything_ for long, though. As quickly as he’d pinned Ollie earlier, the man stepped back and pointed at the ground.

"Your fucking pathetic wank fantasy of suckin’ me off…" Malcolm unfastened his belt and fly, shoving his trousers and pants down to display narrow hips, the long extremely wiry legs of a distance runner…and a formidable erection, pulsing and hard as marble with clear fluid already trickling from the tip. "Do it. Right here. Right now. That’s all yer big mouth is good for anyway."

It was in an almost dreamlike haze that Ollie found himself agreeing, even begging to go on. He’d not felt this delight, this painful trance of arousal, ever. All his well-hidden fantasies about being dominated by someone powerful — a _real_ power and not some peroxide-blonde dressed up in stilettos and PVC, going through the motions — were being enacted right here. He dropped to his knees without any hesitation.

Malcolm folded his gigantic wings and stood before him, his erection an inch from Ollie’s face. “Do a fucking good enough job and I might, fucking _might_ forget the abject stupidity ye’ve shown this week. Do a fucking excellent job and I won’t let Jamie rip out your fucking voice box fer macking on Sam.”

Ollie dipped his head and extended a hand to stroke at Malcolm’s erection, the velvet-soft skin red hot under his hesitant touch. When no objections came from the man above, Ollie grew bolder and ran his tongue up his length, his hand gently circling the base, stopping briefly to kiss and lick at his balls.

“Get a fucking move on, Louie Spence,” Malcolm ordered, and Ollie tightened his grip and took the full length of Malcolm’s cock into his mouth in one smooth motion, letting it rest on his tongue for a few seconds before closing his lips around it. It felt thick and heavy and hot in his mouth, and the sharp intake of breath and rustle of wings he heard was a clear sign to Ollie that yes, Malcolm was enjoying this. Ollie started to lick, sliding his mouth up and down in long movements, his tongue rubbing at Malcolm’s cock, teasing at the tip and lapping up the pre-come.

Malcolm growled and grabbed a handful of Ollie’s thick curls, pulling his head down sharply until he was was buried in Ollie’s mouth up to the hilt, the head hitting the back of his throat.

"No fucking gag reflex, eh? I bet mine isn’t the first cock you’ve sucked, is it?"

He was right about that, but Ollie wasn’t about to let on. He slid his lips up and down, swirled his tongue around the head and shaft, giving the sensitive underside a few long, slow licks.

***

Malcolm shuddered and grabbed Ollie’s head even harder, vaguely registering the near desperate moan of arousal that came from the man under him in response to his dominating behavior. The little whore seemed to get more turned on the more Malcolm pulled him about. Malcolm’s ever-active brain catalogued all this interesting new information even as his body craved release.

He started moaning, thrusting his hips fast and fucking Ollie’s mouth hard, shoving his cock further into his throat with savage, high velocity thrusts. The little fucking muppet was _good_ , Malcolm hadn’t had a real submissive in fucking ages — the thrill of having someone totally bend to his whim _and_ fucking enjoy it at the same time made him shiver in delight. He pushed himself in and out of Ollie’s wet, hot mouth even faster, grunting as he single-mindedly chased his climax.

"Fucking swallow it," Malcolm growled as he felt himself grow harder and hotter against Ollie’s lips and tongue. “Swallow the whole fucking lot, you tart. I’m going tae come!”

***

His harsh words made Ollie’s own erection leap, and he sucked as hard and fast as he could. He shivered as Malcolm beat his wings, gusts of wind raising goosebumps along his skin. Malcolm was lost in primal ecstasy, head thrown back and eyes tightly shut, his snarls and growls no longer remotely human. His hips wildly rocked back and forth to drive his throbbing cock home, faster and faster, while his hands simultaneously shoved Ollie’s head forward on every hard thrust.

Ollie could hear the great wings rustle, feel every muscle in the lithe body above him shudder and braced himself.

“Fucking coming —!” The warning from Malcolm came barely a second before his cock swelled in Ollie’s mouth and powerful jets of come hit his throat. Reflex made him swallow fast, a few drops escaping round the corners of his mouth as Malcolm groaned long and _loud_ above him.

***

"What do you fucking know, you _can_ follow simple instructions after all.” Malcolm looked down at Ollie and abruptly pulled himself out, still breathing hard. The lanky streak of dysentery was knelt on the floor with an expression bordering on dazed worship, streaks of come still dripping down his chin, and for several seconds Malcolm just stood there, staring, wondering what to do.

He had to admit, Reeder gave pretty fucking good head. Not as good as Jamie, who sucked like a fucking Electrolux on crack, but with the advantage of not having to have a half-hour knock-down aerial fight first, so there was that. Also, he liked having a snitch in each department — someone who would report on situations to Malcolm long before they became shitstorms — and Murray had turned into Ms Simpering Simple as soon as she got a _whiff_ of wings so she was fucking useless for that. Twat Boy Slim probably had more experience, anyway. He could just see the little bootlicker in his wee blazer and fucking wee prefect’s badge, tattling to the house master about catching one of the fags having a slash in the tuck shop sink.

Decision made, Malcolm cleaned himself off with a tissue and zipped himself back up. Ollie kept kneeling, waiting, not saying a word. Malcolm approved; he liked it when people knew when to shut the fuck up. Time to get the little shit back to work though.

“Up.” He motioned to Ollie and watched him rise to his feet in one easy graceful motion. “Not bad. You suck cock like a fucking pro, ye know, which has brought you a very temporary reprieve from the flaying alive I was going tae give ye earlier.” He could have laughed at how obviously Ollie went from arousal, to fear, to relief within the space of a few seconds. Wingless were so easy to read, although it didn’t take superior senses to work out that young Mr Reeder was still aroused — still breathing hard from his recent activity, his trousers sporting a wet patch of pre-come in the front and tenting over an enormous erection.

***

“Bet ye want me tae take care of that fucking pole in ye pants, eh?” Malcolm smirked, and then he really did laugh when Ollie nodded a frantic “ _yes.”_

“Not gonna happen today, son. Carry on bringin’ me useful info and we’ll see. But for now, ye can go have a rub somewhere else out of my sight.” Malcolm turned away and walked toward his desk, dismissing Ollie without even a gesture.

This wasn’t how Ollie was expecting this to go. “But, Malcolm, I’ve done everything you asked and —”

A sudden gust of air and Malcolm was standing right in front of him, teeth bared. “And what? You think I’d forget that you were sniffing around Sam like a fucking dog in heat? That you’d tried tae blackmail _me_?” He leaned in again and glared at Ollie. “Get the fuck out of my office before I decide tae have a post-fuck snack of skinny-shite-on-a-stick.”

***

When he turned around, Ollie was still standing there, whimpering and looking down at his trouser tent. “I, I can’t be seen walking out of your office like this!”

Malcolm briefly considered just retracting his wings and physically throwing him out of the office like a Trident missile, but what he’d said was true enough. Reeder might also need a bit of a reward to keep his new loyalty to Malcolm foremost in his mind for the foreseeable future. Power wasn’t just about punishment and fear, after all.

As quick as he’d grab a passing pigeon for a mid-air snack, Malcolm grabbed Ollie by the waistband of his trousers and pulled them open, allowing his right hand to shoot inside and circle Ollie’s own pounding erection.

“Jesus—!” Ollie gasped.

“Near enough, as far as you’re concerned.” Malcolm smiled and gripped Ollie’s cock in his strong fingers, wrapping his wings around him. “I bet you’d like tae get off right now, am I right?”

What little dignity Ollie had left — not that he’d ever had much — disappeared faster than a cup of Bovril at a Rangers game. He was squirming, panting and making whimpering little moans, practically begging for a good hard fucking. “y-yes…please…”

  
  


Malcolm tightened his grip. “Then tell me ye are _my_ pet, _my_ fuckin’ plaything, and you’ll fucking do what I tell you to do, when I fucking tell you to do it.”

  
  


"I’m yours, your slave, your pet, your property — oh god Malcolm, please fuck me!"

  
  


***

_My god, he’s really going to do this!_ Ollie’s mind practically screamed in disbelieving delight, and his cock leapt wildly against Malcolm’s palm.

Suddenly Malcolm’s teeth were on his neck, slender fingers like an eagle’s talons digging into his waist, biting and clawing until Ollie was no longer sure whether the monstrous Scottish raptor wanted to fuck him or eat him. Malcolm’s fingers were squeezing his erection with a grip that was almost painfully hard, sending new waves of terror and erotic pleasure throughout Ollie’s body.

***

Malcolm laughed, actually fucking _laughed_ when Ollie’s head tipped back and he moaned. His fingers were starting to work fast on Ollie’s cock, rubbing along the shaft and pressing his thumb into the sensitive bit just below the head. He could feel Ollie shaking, trying to hold on and not come embarrassingly fast in front of him. It would be humiliating for the wee shite to come within seconds of Malcolm touching him, after all. It was therefore a bloody shame that Malcolm Tucker was a 24-carat gold, diamond-encrusted bastard.

With a single deft movement of his fingers, Malcolm tipped Ollie straight over the edge.

***

“Oh fuck—” Ollie started to moan, but all words were cut off as his cock leapt in Malcolm’s grasp and he came unexpectedly and _hard._ He had never come that fast, not since he was still a boy in the Repton dorms trying not to be caught _in flagrante delicto_ engaging in nightly self-pleasure. He was helpless in Malcolm’s grasp, coming in long aching spurts against his hand, Malcolm’s fingers milking him through it, draining him.

“ _Pathetic._ ” Malcolm sneered and stepped back, removing his hand from Ollie’s trousers. “You last about as long as a line of coke near a fucking press hack.” He held his hand, shining with the opaque evidence of Ollie’s orgasm, right in front of Ollie’s face and commanded him to “clean this up.”

Breathless, trembling and slightly shell-shocked, Ollie took Malcolm’s fingers into his mouth without a word and licked his own salty taste off the bony hand presented to him, giving each long finger a teasing little suck. When Malcolm deemed it clean enough he snatched his hand back and dried it clean on Ollie’s tie.

“Malcolm!”

Malcolm turned his back and Ollie saw the massive wings impossibly fold themselves and shrink back into skin, leaving only two grey streaks of scar tissue over Malcolm’s shoulder blades.

Shrugging on his shirt and rooting around for his tie, Malcolm gave him one last order without even turning round.

“Now get out.”

Ollie walked out of Number 10 on weak, shaking legs, all of his previous demands and questions forgotten.


End file.
